


Where the Lovelight Gleams

by dollylux



Series: Fic Advent Calendar 2014: Brothers, Soulmates, and Other Such Sexiness [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Dean Has Realizations, Discovery, Letters, Letters to Santa, M/M, Season/Series 01, Stanford Era, Unrequited Love, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:04:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds something unexpected in the trunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Lovelight Gleams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exaggerated_Specificity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/gifts), [kelios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/gifts).



> Day eighteen of my fic advent calendar. Prompt: snail mail.
> 
> Thank you so so so much to Leslie for all of your ideas and input about this prompt. Your love and support means so much to me<3

“Did you check in the trunk?”

“Of course I--” Dean stops, a glare settling on his face. “Damnit, Sam.”

Sam snorts from the bed, still curled up under blankets, his eyes still closed while Dean stomps around the room in hunter’s pajamas (his clothes), searching in vain for Dad’s journal.

“You pissed because I’m probably right?”

Dean grumbles in response, snatching up the keys from the table and heading for the door.

It’s freezing outside, three days before Christmas, and he’s exhausted, the kind of tired that no amount of sleep can fix, that no nights of nameless, fantastic sex or greasy food or fat joint can magically take care of.

The sun is just barely hinting at rising, just a shy peek of paled light on the horizon against the lightening blue of the sky. The keys jingle in his hand as he walks across the crowded motel parking lot toward his car.

This is the first Christmas he’s had with Sam in four years, and he still hasn’t really wrapped his head around it, has never really known what to do when he truly gets what he wants. He’s been calling Dad for days now, weeks, trying to get through to a man that is as unavailable as he’s always felt, whether he’s right there in front of Dean or not.

Another Christmas without Dad. He’ll take it, take all of them, as long as he can keep Sam.

The trunk groans when he pries it open, stuffing his keys back into his pockets. His breath huffs out in a steady stream of white as he looks over the contents of his trunk, the bloodied rags and empty fast food bags and stray underwear and cassette tapes. He pilfers through all of it, starting at one corner and working his way up, eyes out for the worn, whiskey-colored leather of the journal.

He’s about to give up, about to close the trunk up and stomp inside and yell at Sam some more just because he feels restless, feels relieved and on edge and grateful to have his brother with him at his secret favorite time of the year, but something deep inside the trunk, right at the very back, catches his eye.

He can see the white of paper in the shadows, and he grins triumphantly as he strains forward, reaching his arm all the way back and grabbing at it.

He comes back with a bundle of letters held together by a rubberband, some in envelopes and some not. He frowns.

None of the handwriting that he sees is his own, or Dad’s. _It’s Sam’s_ , he realizes then, curiosity taking away the worried disappointment he might feel about not finding the journal.

Why the hell would Sam keep letters he’d written? Why not just send the damn things? And who sends letters anymore anyway?

Dean smiles.

His geek brother, of course.

He thumbs through them, not exactly trying to read anything, but something catches his eye and knows he can’t look away now: a shaky, careful drawing of a Christmas tree, complete with different colored balls and a yellow star and a scribbled tree skirt, all of it done in waxy crayon.

A memory tickles at him then, making a flash of nostalgia pulse through him, painful and sharp and enveloping. He used to help Sam write letters to Santa, back when he was a little squirt. Back when he still believed but he knew that Dean was the authority on making things happen, on making magic happen, and that he could write a little better than Sam could back then.

So, Dean would write the letters to Santa while Sam carefully and slowly dictated them.

He glances back up at the motel, at the curtained window to their room. Sam’s already out again probably, not even aware that Dean’s not back. He waits a couple more beats, thinking it over before he decides, fuck it. He slams the trunk closed and opens the door to the backseat of the car, sliding in, closing it, and leaning back against it.

He pulls out that one Christmas letter.

 

_Santa Claus,_

_Hi. My name is Samuel Winchester. I am five years old. My brother Dean is writing this for me. Dean is nine. Say hi Dean (hi). I have tried to be very good this year and I would please like to have these things for Christmas._

_Optumis Prime Transformer_  
 _a peewee sleeping bag_  
 _a remote control mountain monster 18 wheler truck_

_My brother Dean (he said hi to you before) will not write you a letter but I want you to please bring him something. He wants a Jeff Jones skateboard real bad. He only did one bad thing this year but those boys were being mean to me and he was just loking out for me. Thank you Santa and Rudolf._

_Sam Winchester_

 

Dean grins at the letter, a fierce, painful love for his brother tightening around his chest like a vice.

“Sammy, you adorable little shit,” he whispers. They never sent the letter because they’d skipped town later that day, the letter getting tucked into a book or something and forgotten.

He pulls out another one, this one in Sam’s handwriting.

 

_Dear Santa,_

_Hi, I am Sam Winchester. I am 7 years old. I now you are busy so I will not write you a long letter. Here is what I want for Christmas it is just one thing_

_Force One Air Strike Comand_

_I like planes and I want to be a pilot when I grow up. My brother Dean (he is 11) wants a Gameboy real bad. If you cannot bring both of us our presents can you please just bring Dean the Gameboy? We can share._

_Daddy says it is hard for you to find us because we do not have a mailbox with numbers on it. Here I will tell you what kind of car we are in --- black Chevy Impala from 1967. If you see it can you just leave our presents on the trunk or under it? We will find them in the morning. Thank you._

_Sincerly,_

_Sam Winchester_

 

Dean groans, head falling back against the cold window, his eyes slipping closed. So. Fucking. Cute. He can picture Sam back then, his wide, serious eyes, his concentration as he wrote the letters, his unfaltering belief in Santa and his ability to crap out whatever gift Sam (and Dean) wanted pretty amazing for such a small kid.

They never did get that Gameboy.

He digs through the stack again, an adoring smile pulling at his mouth. He spies his own handwriting again and unfolds the piece of paper.

 

_Sam-_

_We had to leave before morning. Bobby just called with some new information for Dad. I’m sorry we won’t be here when you wake up. We will be back tomorrow at the latest. Here’s some money if you want to order a pizza. Stay inside and finish that book report ok? Sorry that we aren’t going to see Dumb and Dumber. We will see it soon, I promise._

_Please stay inside. Stay safe._

_D_

 

Why would Sam save this? This stupid note Dean had written in the dark over ten years ago? There isn’t even a funny joke in it or anything.

Sam’s such a damn weirdo about stuff sometimes.

He glances through the stack again, eyebrows lifting. _Another_ one, in his handwriting.

“What the fuck, Sammy?” he murmurs.

 

_S-_

_Tiffany wants to go to the mall and see a movie so I won’t be home tonight. She just broke up with her boyfriend and she’s been all over me all day (Score!) Dad said he would call this evening so please answer the phone when it rings ok?_

_PS its going to be cold tonight so turn the heat up in the house when it gets dark. One of my hoodies is clean and hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Make sure the doors and window are locked. I’ll be home in the morning._

_D_

 

Tiffany Bryant. Dean smiles. He definitely remembers her. Lakewood, Colorado, 1997.

But seriously, what the fuck with the random letters?

There’s a couple of lists of songs mixed into the pile, some papers with a single line from a song or a poem or something, some with lists of cities scratched on them. Random, random, random.

He pulls out one of the two envelopes, opening it and pulling out the letter inside. He doesn’t know why his heart races as he unfolds it.

 

_Dean,_

_I can’t even kiss girls anymore. I found that out tonight when I went out with Alysha to get Indian food and to see a play her friend is in. She’s really pretty and really smart and really fucking nice, and I walked her back to her dorm room and stood outside of the door with her and she just stared at me, watched me with these big eyes and I knew what she wanted me to do. I know what she was expecting. And I couldn’t do it. I just told her goodnight and I walked away, just left her standing there. I was pissed at myself the whole way home. I’m still pissed._

_Because all I could think about was you. All I could think about was your beautiful fucking mouth and the way you use it, the way I’ve seen you kiss and the way you smile and the words you use and the way you wrap your lips around them._

_Because your mouth is the only one I’ve ever really wanted to kiss. The only one I’ve thought about in class or when other guys talk about how hot their girls are or when I’m alone in my bed at night and I just need to get off so I can sleep._

_You. Just you, you fucking asshole._

 

The letter cuts off there, just stops. He turns it over to look at the back, just stalling, holding off the tidal wave of emotions that come crashing down the second he lets himself think about what he just read. He reads it again, his heart pounding loud in his ears, his face absolutely on fire.

This can’t be real. Right? Maybe there’s another Dean? Maybe this was a joke? An April Fools joke that Sam never got around to sending? Maybe it was some weird experimental improv for some wacko drama class Sam was taking at Stanford.

He folds it up and stuffs it back in the envelope and reaches for the other one, his hands trembling a little now.

 

_D-_

_This is my second Christmas without you, and it’s harder than the first one. One year just seems like maybe it’s a coincidence, like it’s temporary. Like maybe next year, things will be different and I’ll see you again. Except this year, it’s been two years in a row that I haven’t seen you. Now I don’t remember what your face looks like when it’s cold. I don’t remember what color your eyes are when you walk by something decorated with Christmas lights. I don’t remember exactly how your freezing hands feel when they touch my skin or the way your voice rumbles low in your chest when you hum along to Christmas songs when you think I’m not listening. I can’t remember exactly how beautiful it would feel to watch you look up at the sky on Christmas Eve and catch you looking for Santa’s sleigh or a falling star, just a quick glance that nobody else would notice, but I noticed. I noticed because you’re mine, and I’m yours, and I know you. I know that you love the magic of winter, of December, that it has never left you no matter how much you pretend otherwise._

_Two years._

_Do you think of me this time of year? Do you miss me? Have you already built a wall up around your heart and blocked me out because it’s just easier that way? I wouldn’t blame you, you know._

_Merry Christmas and I love you, Dean Winchester._

_-S_

 

“Shit,” he breathes. The sun is rising quickly now, shooting gold and pink into the sky, brightening everything up while Dean’s entire world changes. It feels fucking surreal to see this, to read these things. It feels absolutely foreign and exactly, exactly right at the same time. It feels cozy, like these words are a place for him to stay, a place where he belongs. They feel _right_ , true, just as much as they terrify him.

He tucks the letter back into its envelope and picks up another one, _the last one_ , he promises himself. He unfolds the paper that shivers in his grasp.

 

_I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever see you again. If I will feel the same, if I ever do. I wonder if it will hurt as bad as it used to, if it’ll feel so, so good, just like it used to, too. I wonder what you would do if I ever told you. Wonder how hard you would hit me. Wonder just how ugly your beautiful face can be when you look at me in disgust. Wonder how fast you would get away from me and stay away from me. Wonder how long I could really survive without you, after knowing I had really lost you, finally just driven you away. I wonder if you would miss me._

 

He closes the paper, stuffing it in with the rest of them, and snaps the rubberband around them again. His heart is racing desperately in his chest.

The air is just as frigid at dawn as it had been when he’d stepped outside earlier. His mission is forgotten now, his life strangely, completely altered because of a few pieces of paper with words, years-old words, written on them. He steps right back inside of the warm, dark motel room, staying as quiet as possible as he closes the door, locks it behind him.

 

Sam is still there, curled up on his side in his bed, the covers shoved down around his stomach, feet hanging off the edge of the bed, a sock loose on one of them. His Sam. His whole entire world just feet from him in a rumpled motel bed, the heart contained within Sam’s chest holding a love for him that Dean hadn’t known existed until twenty minutes ago. A love that it will take years for Dean to really wrap his whole head around, to learn the length and history of, but he wants to.

He refuses to let himself second guess this, to overthink it like he does everything else involving Sam. Because this feels like Sam giving permission, begging him, and it feels like Dean’s finally allowed to give in, to sigh _yes_ and have it be okay.

He toes off his shoes, pulls off his jeans, leaving him in underwear and a t-shirt.

Sam’s bed is soft, the blankets wash-worn and old but they smell good, like fabric softener and Sam’s warm skin. Dean leans back against the headboard and stares down at his little brother, at the messy top of his head, the delicate, straight line of his nose, the beauty mark kissing Sam’s left cheek.

_His._

He reaches for one of Sam’s hands, cupping it with both of his own. Sam’s hands are enormous, long and powerful, veins running up the back of it and up the length of his arms. Dean curls down then, sinking into the mattress beside his brother and lifting Sam’s hand to his face, so absolutely lost in this, in this new permission, this new allowance for them both, the possibilities so endless, so terrifyingly wonderful that he’s shaking again as he presses kisses across Sam’s palm, up his fingers and over the back of his hand and his knuckles, soft, worshipful kisses, his eyes closed in devotion.

“Dean?” Sam sounds muffled, his voice scratchy, still half-asleep. His fingers close a little then around Dean’s, like he can’t help but want to grip, to hold Dean’s hand. Like they’re meant to touch like that, like this, like their fingerprints might line up if they tried, might slot together like a key and unlock the universe between them and show them the endless extent of their love for each other.

Dean feels delirious, feels like he’s dreaming. He kisses at Sam’s pulse, at the lines of veins on the babysoft skin inside his wrist.

“Go back to sleep, Sammy, ‘m sorry,” he breathes against his skin, forehead pressing against Sam’s fingertips. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Sam gives a soft, content grunt, his fingers closing up even more, tightening around Dean’s and tugging on him, pulling him closer. Dean goes with a relieved, aching sigh, curling around Sam and pulling the covers up over them, trying to contain them, to keep them and this new, unfurling happiness in his chest safe, just for a little while.

He will never go back now. Can never turn back.

Sam’s here. He’s back again finally, and Dean belongs to him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Where the Lovelight Gleams-爱之光闪耀之处](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428450) by [sixdrops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixdrops/pseuds/sixdrops)
  * [[podfic] Where The Lovelight Gleams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269525) by [applegeuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applegeuse/pseuds/applegeuse)




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